This song was tumultuously applauded⁠—for friends and dependents make a capital audience⁠—and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round.

“How it snows!” said one of the men, in a low tone.

“Snows, does it?” said Wardle.

“Rough, cold night, Sir,” replied the man; “and there’s a wind got up, that drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.”

“What does Jem say?” inquired the old lady. “There ain’t anything the matter, is there?”

“No, no, mother,” replied Wardle; “he says there’s a snowdrift, and a wind that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.”